One Minus One Third
by JustSaraNoH
Summary: Natasha and Clint deal with the death of their handler, Agent Phil Coulson.
1. Chapter 1

**NOTES:** Greetings, reader! I wanted to explore how losing Coulson affected Clint and Natasha, so here is my theory on what happened. This will probably have three or four chapters and serve as a prequel to my story "Return of the Son of Coul" (see my profile for a link). I'm not going to have a regular update day/time frame, so please subscribe to the story or keep an eye on my Tumblr (again, link in my profile) if you want to know when this is updated.

A million thanks to **KrisEleven** for being a superb beta.

* * *

Natasha sat next to Clint on the tiny bunk in the SHIELD medical quarters on the helicarrier. Her body was stiff with tension after being chased by the Hulk, hearing Fury announce her handler's demise, and having to beat up the closest thing she had to a best friend. She'd had better days.

She waited for him to ask the question, but she still didn't know what she was going to do or say when he did. Initially, she'd tried to steer him away from asking about what happened while he was under Loki and the Tesseract's influence. She could feel in her bones that things around them were coming to a head quickly and she didn't want him distracted. She also knew he'd instantly notice Coulson's absence when it came time to have someone calling the shots in their ear; she didn't want Clint to hear about Coulson from anyone but her.

And then it came.

"Where is he?" he had asked after they'd lulled themselves into a moment of silence while digesting thoughts of monsters and magic. "I thought Coulson'd be in here by now. He need a junior agent to help him carry down all the paperwork this debrief is going to take?"

She turned her attention to her boots.

"Nat?" he asked quietly.

She ground her jaw together before looking him in the eye. He deserved to know, even if it meant sending his guilt-ridden mind further down the rabbit hole. "Coulson's gone." She said it in the same tone the agent had told her Clint had been compromised. A tone that, to nearly everyone else, sounded quiet for the sake of trying to keep things under wraps but in reality was so full of anxiety and sadness that the speaker was about to break. A tone that said it was taking everything they had to keep themselves from losing it. And only the three of them would recognize that tone from one of the others.

Clint went still, scarily still. He could remain motionless for hours in a perch waiting for the perfect shot, but to see him do it now sitting on the edge of the bunk without a weapon in his hand was terrifying.

"Clint," she whispered. She knew better than to touch him. She knew his body was acting on pure, protective instinct right now while his brain attempted to process information. Previous bruises and black eyes reminded her to let him be for a moment. In the early days of their relationship—because he had saved her life—she'd done her best to mimic an appropriate, soothing response when something bad jogged his memory of one of the many atrocities of his youth. It never ended well; he'd spent so many years throwing punches in order to protect himself that his brain considered it to be an automatic response.

She counted to one hundred in her head before saying his name again, this time a little louder. He still didn't move, not for another count of thirty-two. After that he ran to the tiny bathroom and began retching into the toilet. Natasha followed after him; she ran a washcloth under cold water and draped across the back of his neck with her right hand while moving her left to cradle his forehead. She stayed quiet even after he finished. He brushed her fingers away and used the damp cloth to wash his face before rocking back on his heels. She sat down on the floor, giving him as much space as the small compartment allowed.

"Did I do it?" he whispered harshly.

"No. It was Loki. Stabbed him from behind—coward."

"Then I still helped."

"No, you didn't."

"Who do you think got him on the damn helicarrier, Nat?"

"You weren't in control."

He only shook his head in response, turning his eyes to the floor.

"Listen to me, Clint, you were not in control. You just asked me if I knew what it felt for someone to turn you inside out. I do. I know what feels to be completely emptied and the only thing put back in is someone else's agenda. You did not make this happen."

She wanted to reassure him that Coulson knew Clint would never intentionally bring him harm. Barton had a habit of throwing care to the wind when it came to his own safety, but he was painstakingly cautious when it came to the well-being of his teammates. Natasha wanted to remind him of this fact but knew it would fall on deaf ears.

"I get Loki," Clint whispered with deadly intent.

"I'm not going to make any promises, but I'll do what I can." She could understand his need for revenge. It was a feeling she'd been raised to rely on, but she also knew the trauma it could cause someone when they were denied the opportunity to carry out their own. Their so-called team was pushed to rally over the agent's death. They would each want a shot at him. All except for Thor, who would want him alive to deal with him on whatever alien terms their people had. It would be a challenge, and a shame to deny herself that small victory, but she mentally swore to do all she could to let Clint take out Loki.

They remained on the floor in silence until she heard someone keying a code into the door to the infirmary quarters. She rose and made her way out to the main compartment. On her way, Natasha waved Clint off as he too stood, but he ignored her. Rogers entered a moment later and gave them the heads up. He looked to Natasha for approval of whether or not to trust Clint, and she didn't hesitate to give a slight nod. The Captain told them to meet up with him as soon as Barton was dressed and ready to go before spinning on his heel and marching out of the room.

Natasha turned back to Clint, an unspoken question in her eyes.

"I'll be fine. I can do this," Clint answered with a quiet voice.

She wasn't sure who he was trying to reassure: her or his own mind. She looked him up and down. His hands had stopped shaking, but he was still pale. She wondered briefly whether or not he'd eaten or slept while under Loki's control; his frame looked slightly leaner and his cheeks a little more hollow then when she'd seen him last two weeks ago.

A normal woman would want to soothe and dote on him, but she was not a normal woman. So she was going to help him cope the best way she knew how. "What do you need?"

Clint looked down at himself. She saw his eyes flicker over what was on his person as he undoubtedly took a mental inventory. "Where's my bow?"

Natasha opened one of the cabinets along the wall and pulled out his weapon and quiver, freshly stocked with new arrows.

"You were stupid enough to keep that in here with me when you didn't know who I would be when I woke up?" he said, his voice matching the hardness in his eyes.

She shrugged. "You were restrained. And I could've kicked you in the head some more, until you were yourself again."

"Jesus, Nat, that was still a stupid thing to do," he replied while running his hands over his set of weapons, making sure everything was working correctly and undoubtedly soothing himself with the familiar touch. It was a motion Natasha had seen him do countless times, usually when his mind was racing.

She reached further into the cabinet and pulled a bag. She extended it to him, and he nodded as he took it from her. He unzipped the satchel and drew out his SHIELD uniform. As he redressed himself, Natasha took the opportunity to flick her eyes over his frame once more.

It was yet another sign he was not well. There would normally be a string of sexually charged comments flying out of his mouth while she studied his body while he undressed, but he was silent. Natasha reconsidered for half a second whether or not she should just sedate him and keep him tucked away somewhere safe while the rest of them went to battle, but she knew he would never forgive her if she did.

_Love is for children. I owe him a debt._

Her brain bounced back to the words she'd spoken to Loki. She believed them with all her heart. She would never admit to loving Clint, mostly because that was an unattainable emotion for her. But she knew about repayment, about needing to seek balance to clear yourself, your name.

She was compromised. She should be doing everything possible to keep him safe, and keep the rest of them safe in case Clint was more of a hindrance than a help to the team. But she owed him too much. Not just her life, but for the times when he'd done the same for her when they'd hunted down men from her past who spent years building her into the weapon she was today. She had no business being on those missions, but he'd talked her onto the operations roster and had let her take the kill shot a number of times.

She owed him a debt. She would do her best to let him take Loki, if for no other reason than to get her friend back. Already she could see the forty-seven foot thick wall he was building around himself, a strong front to reassure others that he was fit for duty. But knowing how he built that wall around him, she also knew where all the cracks would lie. She knew how to see past the hardness in his eyes to the agonizing pain lying beneath. She normally split watching his weak spots with Coulson, but obviously that wasn't going to happen today.

The sound of the snap around his collar brought her out of her reverie. He looked at her and waited, going so very still again. He was waiting for orders, waiting for her to push him along. She didn't bother asking him whether or not he was sure he wanted to do this. It was pointless to waste the time, energy, and breath. So she simply nodded, turned on her heel, and led him out of the infirmary quarters to meet up with Rogers.

_Watch his back. Let him kill Loki. Then figure out the rest._


	2. Chapter 2

**NOTES:** Again, thanks to the fantastic **KrisEleven** for beta services. And thanks to all of you for reading this.

* * *

Once they were finished with medical checks, debriefs, and shawarma, Clint had followed her back to her quarters like a lost puppy. She wasn't surprised. Natasha was well-awarewell aware of Clint's damaged psyche; he only slept where he felt safe and those options were either in Natasha's bed or on Coulson's couch. He could rest well enough in his own quarters, but rarely bothered. Sleep was never something Clint spent a lot of time doing, and Natasha and Coulson didn't mind putting up with his snoring. They certainly weren't about to kick him out and deprive him of sleep or, even worse, leave him feeling rejected yet again.

Silently, they stripped off their gear and crept into bed too exhausted to mess with clean clothes or even a shower. They didn't talk to each other; they rarely had the need to do so. They'd known each other for so long that they could read the other from a couple of klicks out through a scope as easily as when they were inches apart.

Natasha felt him roll over onto his stomach—sore backside. He'd told her about crashing through a window and taking a hard hit on an office floor. Otherwise he would be sleeping on his back. She listened a few seconds more for other signs that he may be injured. The two of them were renowned for waving off medical attention but unlike her, he didn't have bio-enhancements helping his body out when it came to healing. Appeased enough with his physical state, Natasha settled into the mattress on her right side with her back to Barton. She was almost asleep moments later when she felt the fingers of his left hand reach out and take hold of the tips of her hair. Clint soothed himself with touch; when missions got tough, he would roll an arrow shaft between his calloused fingers or run his fingertips along the curve of his bow without really thinking about the actions.

She wondered if he was aware of what he was doing now. She never could get a straight answer out of him on why he was obsessed with playing with her hair; it was what he went for whenever one or both of them needing soothing. And he was the only she allowed to touch her in that way, with one exception.

Two years ago, Barton had gone missing on an op. Sitwell had done all he could to retrieve him on the scene, but was unsuccessful. Coulson had been pulled off the mission to extract Natasha from an eight-month deep cover op with HYDRA. Her relief at ending that particular mission was short-lived since shesince she and Coulson had barely stepped of the jet when Sitwell told them what happened. Natasha and Phil had immediately spun on their heels and reboarded the jet with Jasper right behind them. Fury and Hill had been smart enough to not only anticipate this reaction but allow it. By then Clint had been missing for six days. There were three leads that Sitwell had been able to put together pointing to Barton being held somewhere in the Middle East, none of them were solid.

Between the three agents, they spent the next four days talking to contacts, running down clues, and refusing to eat or sleep as they traveled between Jordan, Israel, and Syria. Finally, someone broke and they had the first solid clue in over a week: Egypt. A terrorist cell had grabbed Clint from his op and taken him to their headquarters. The reasons were unclear, but none of them cared. As quickly as possible, the three of them moved into a safehouse in Cairo. They refused to let Fury send anyone else in; they didn't want to attract any attention to themselves for fearing of Clint being moved again and having to start the process all over again.

They took shifts staking out the compound where Barton was held; it was well-guardedwell guarded, difficult to access, and full of extremely loyal operatives. These guys were serious business. As much as they hated to it, they would have to wait another four days before a rescue mission could be attempted with some reasonable margin of success. By then, Clint would have been missing for nineteen days. It wasn't his record, but that didn't make things any easier on any of them, especially when they spent every day staring down the compound where he was being held.

Sitwell was constantly apologizing. Coulson repeatedly told him it would be fine as long as they got him back. Had it been any other handler, Natasha imagined that Phil would not have such a generous reaction, but the two men had come up through SHIELD together and if Sitwell said he'd done everything he could on the mission to prevent this from happening, then everyone believed him.

Jasper was also the unlucky one to draw the duty of making Natasha and Phil eat and sleep. There were numerous threats of feeding tubes and tranquilizers. One night, her body-unable to handle the stress of a deep cover up followed immediately with the fear of losing the closest thing she had to a best friend-could not take any more. She abruptly rose from the table where she and Coulson were mindlessly consuming some local fare and moved off to the closet with a cot she'd been calling her bedroom. She curled herself up into a ball on the thin mattress with her face to the wall. It was a moment before she heard Phil's chair squeak on the floor and hesitant steps come her way. He stood over her for a moment before sitting on the floor beside her bed. Her breath caught in her throat as she felt his take hold of a lock of her hair and slowly twist it between the thumb and index finger of his right hand.

In her exhaustion, she allowed herself a single tear to streak her cheek and move down to the pillow. Squeezing her eyes shut, she pretended the hands were different, rougher. She pretended the man's breathing in the room was laced with a soft melody since Clint had the habit of singing to himself, especially when he occupied his hands with something to let his mind relax for a moment.

Natasha wasn't sure when Phil had picked up on this habit that she and Barton had with each other. But if anyone would know about it, it would be Philhim. He was the one she felt comfortable enough to not worry about when she fell asleep with her head on Clint's lap and his hands in her hair. Of course Coulson would pick up on the habit his agents had in soothing each other.

She awoke hours later. Phil's fingers were still in contact with her hair, but they were loose and relaxed. He'd fallen asleep with his head resting on his outstretched arm. It was then that Natasha realized that his actions weren't totally for her benefit. That he, too, ached for Clint's return and one of his motivations was to put himself in Barton's place as if that could somehow bring him closer for a moment to the missing asset.

She tried to remain as still as possible, but Coulson was too good at his job. He sensed her slight movement and change in breathing, and was soon stirring back to consciousness himself. She rolled over and their eyes met for a moment. The words 'thank you' were about to fall from her lips when Phil cleared his throat and muttered about getting a pot of coffee started.

They rescued Clint two days later. He had two broken ribs, a split lip, and bruises everywhere but no one cared too much about his physical experience because he was there, with them. Switching roles, Clint slept with his head in Natasha's lap while she ran her fingers gently through his short, brown hair. She and Coulson's eyes meet and they shared a brief, twitch of lips, which for them might as well have been laughs of joy.

She grabbed hold of the warmth associated with that image of Coulson and memorized it, fearful that things regarding her handler would start to slip from her memory soon. Giving her body one more, slight shuffle against the mattress, she focused on the slowing motions of Clint's fingers and sighed herself to sleep.

She awoke two hours later with a kick to the back of her legs. Her eyes flew open and her mind quickly reassured her that she was not in danger. Not from an enemy at least. Clint was thrashing wildly while moaning and muttering incoherently. Natasha got out of the bed quickly to put a safe distance between the two of them, but Clint's right hand chased her form across the mattress seeking out the loss of warmth.

He'd rolled over onto his back in the night, and Natasha was sure that was causing some of the lines of pain creased into his face. Humming one of his favorite songs softly, she managed to calm him down a moment and gently roll him back over on his stomach. She sat down next to him on the bed and ran her hands lightly through his hair. Her fingers encountered a couple of small pieces of glasses causing her to make sure that was all that was left on him so as not to add to the scrapes to his body.

Natasha turned to check the time on her phone which rested on the end table next to what was currently Clint's side of the bed. It was a little after four in the morning. She knew she could try and sleep some more, but her internal clock would have her up again within ninety minutes. She might as well not bother wasting her time.

Her email icon caught her attention. Opening her inbox she noted several notices added to her schedule: two more debriefings later in the day, another more thorough medical check, but there was one email that ripped her heart open all over again.

The message was from Maria Hill and had the subject line of "Funeral Arrangements for Agent Phil Coulson".


	3. Chapter 3

Natasha walked into one of the briefing rooms at SHIELD headquarters and immediately regretted not taking stronger pain meds when she'd woke up. Clint was tight on her heels, quietly following her. The silence irked her. Barton was rarely quiet, yet he hadn't said more than a dozen words since being released from medical yesterday.

He broke off from behind her to sit ramrod straight in one of the chairs surrounding the conference table. She catalogued it as another way he was acting off. She was half-inclined to lean forward and get in his face in order to double check his eye color, but she was sure part of his behavior was to avoid alarming the team members he'd met in the midst of battle yesterday. Part—not all.

She slid into the chair next to him, took a sip of her coffee as she moved a fraction of her focus to the shouting match between Stark and Hill.

"That's not good enough!" Stark yelled.

"Anything more would blow the cover Agent Coulson chose to establish with his family and friends," Hill responded, her tone giving away her fatigue.

"We should at least serve as pall bearers or something," Tony whined quietly as slunk into the chair across the table from Natasha. She took a moment to give the billionaire a visual once over. The crumpled and ratty band t-shirt and jeans weren't totally out of place. The puffy, red eyes were. Usually Stark would have a pair of ridiculously over-priced sunglasses on to cover the physical flaw.

"Soldiers usually serve as pall bearers at military funerals, Tony," Steve reasoned with a soft voice.

Stark turned a glare to the other man, "I've been to military funerals before, Rogers."

The super soldier winced at the bitterness in the other man's tone. "You said you'd never lost a soldier before, I just assumed… Sorry."

The room fell silent for a moment before Doctor Banner, who looked edgy and was eying the nearest exit to get back to his temporary lab, broke it. "Is there something for us to discuss? Or are we just going to sit here?"

Maria shook her head slightly as if remembering she was the one to speak. "Yes, sorry. We would like all of you to lie low for the next two weeks. No public appearances, nothing. We want you out of the limelight until we can decide what to do publicity-wise regarding the Initiative."

"Pepper wants to me to do the rounds to discuss clean energy for the next month. Can't, sorry," Tony replied with only a fraction of his usual smugness.

Natasha turned a single raised eyebrow to him, "You really think anyone will want to talk about that right now? Especially with you?"

"Stark Tower, ugly as some may see it—" Tony paused to send a look Rogers' way, "played an instrumental part in the battle yesterday. I can spin this for our advantage."

"Which 'our' are you talking about?" Natasha asked.

"You will not be talking to the press," Hill responded, her voice tired but firm. "You will wait two weeks before you talk to anyone, and when that time is passed, then you will speak when and where we say. And this time, Stark, you'll actually stick to the cards we give you."

"Do we have to stay here during that time?" Banner asked.

Maria shook her head. "You're free to leave the headquarters and move about the city if you desire. We would appreciate notice if you choose to travel farther than that, but you are free to leave."

"Notify you? Seriously?" Tony asked bitterly. "Like you're not going to be tracking our every move anyway?"

She paused and looked down at the file folders on the table in front of her before finishing. "You are also free not to return if you wish."

Natasha subtly looked around the room to gauge reactions to that, but the men at the table with her didn't give away too many tells. She knew she would be coming back. Of course she regularly received offers to defect from SHIELD, but they never held her attention. She had red to wipe from her ledger, and while her current employer could hardly be described as reputable, it was her best shot.

She was unsure, however, in what capacity she would serve SHIELD. Coulson had told her once when introducing her to her place on the Initiative that she and Barton were desperately needed there. It would calm the public to see average—not that she and Clint usually fell into that category—humans on a team with a drug-enhanced soldier, a billionaire weapons designer, a monster, and a god. More than likely she would remain part of the team, but she would rather return to covert operations and intelligence gathering.

Her eyes fell on Clint, who was attempting to stare a hole into the conference room table. He could go freelance, too, if he desired. They'd tossed the idea around before, mostly to settle constantly changing exit procedures should they need to flee from the eyes and grasp of SHIELD. If he received offers from other organizations, he didn't tell her about them. So he would probably stay on as well. Whether or not his position on the team was safe was another matter. While the general public had no idea of his actions while under the influence of the Tesseract, the people at the table did, and they would need to be able to trust each other with their lives. While he served them well in yesterday's battle, there might still be some issues regarding loyalty.

She looked at the others. Stark could probably stay on, if his ego was appropriately stroked. Odds were good she would be relied upon to make that happen. Banner would more than likely flee for the hills as soon as this briefing was over. Rogers didn't have any contemporaries remaining and was built to take orders and serve, even before the serum was injected into his body; he would probably remain, too. That left Thor. Natasha heard at the coffee pot before coming into the meeting that the Asgardian was currently keeping a round-the-clock watch on his brother. They were set to return to their home world, with the Tesseract, this afternoon. Who knew when Thor could return, or if he ever would.

Maria began to gather her files. "If you there are no other questions, it would be appreciated if you all were present for the handoff of the Tesseract in five hours, but not required. Please try to stay out of the spotlight for the next two weeks. If you desire to return, I will see you here two weeks from tomorrow at oh-eight-hundred. Until then, you are dismissed."

Rogers nodded and shot out of his chair as Maria rose and then made her way out of the room. The rest remained seated and received a look of disapproval from the soldier for doing so. He turned and exited, muttering something about retrieving a bike. Stark engaged Banner in a conversation about theories that were out of Natasha's depth; the two of them moved off, more than likely to a lab to discuss things while playing with toys.

Natasha turned her attention back to Clint. He hadn't moved the entire time during the meeting. Usually when that happened it meant he was sleeping with his eyes open, but Natasha had yet to hear him snore. Giving him a swift kick under the table caused him to jerk in his seat.

"The hell was that for?" he asked with a slight grimace.

"Just making sure you're still in there."

His mouth pursed at her wording. "It's me, Nat."

"You're not acting like it."

He shrugged. "Just tired."

She waited another minute, but didn't push him on the matter any further. "I assume you want to go to the funeral tomorrow?"

He nodded.

"Then I guess I have to take you shopping for some appropriate attire."

Barton shook his head slightly, eyes dropping to the ground. "I have a suit."

"Since when?" she asked incredulously.

"Five years ago, the White House op."

"Which one?"

"Where we impersonated FBI agents."

Natasha knew she wasn't a part of the 'we' he was referring to. Among his numerous covers, Coulson had one as an FBI agent that had a habit of liaising with the White House on different occasions, mostly whenever Fury wanted intel or felt like screwing with someone. She'd heard bits here and there about the mission in question. Coulson had preferred she join him instead, but since she was doing deep cover work at the time, he'd been forced to take Clint. Since the White House was still standing and didn't show any damage when she returned, she'd assumed all had gone well.

"Will it still fit you?"

He shrugged. "Probably."

"Let's go try it on to make sure. Tony says we can fly down with him to DC tomorrow morning if we want. Pepper said she'd keep the stripping flight attendants at bay until after the funeral so we don't show up with glitter everywhere." She didn't receive a reaction at her attempt at a joke, so she stood and pulled Barton to his feet. "C'mon."

They made their way to Barton's quarters. She held in a sneeze from the layer of dust that had settled over everything. The quarters rarely saw much use when Clint was in town, but since he'd been stationed with Coulson in New Mexico for the last few months, the air had grown stale.

Natasha sat on the made bed as Clint stripped off his maroon t-shirt and black pants. He found the suit, white dress shirt, and tie hiding in the back of the closet and quietly dressed. Once everything was in place he stood and in front of her. She twirled a finger in the air and he obediently spun slowly in place. At any other time, the suit would probably fit his solid body like a glove. Coulson's care and precision could be seen by those who knew him. Natasha was willing to wager there were pockets that would allow him to carry weapons undetected on his person, maybe even a collapsible bow and a few arrows. But the suit hung slightly loose on his frame now, mostly around his waist. She wondered again what kind of condition he was in while having his mind controlled; whether he was able to rest or eat. Granted, Clint was usually eating around the clock to keep up with his active lifestyle, so anything short of that would cost him a few pounds. But this was something more, something deep. He looked hollow.

She rose from the bed and gently ran her hands over the shoulders and down his arms before giving a nod of approval. "Do you have a garment bag?" He paused before shaking his head. "We can just use the same one I'll take for my dress. It's fine."

He exchanged the suit for his previous attire while she neatly arranged everything back on its hanger. She found herself unsure of what to do next. There was always the range, but even she and her inability to communicate her feelings knew that wasn't going to solve anything. And if she was bad about talking about herself, he was equally so; thus hoping for a heart-to-heart chat about their current position was never going to happen. She ran through the list of other coping mechanisms they'd employed in the past. Her mind solidified on the idea of food. "We'll take this back up to my quarters. Grab some dress shoes and socks first. You have some, right? They fit? Fine. Then let's go find something to eat."

Thirty minutes later they were out in the sunshine. People were milling about either with shell-shocked looks or expressions of sheer joy for still being alive. Thankfully Clint and Natasha's faces could easily fall into the former category at the moment. She didn't feel like forcing a grin to blend in with the crowds.

Natasha began running through breakfast options. Normally her morning meal consisted mostly of coffee, but she wanted to put actual food into Clint. Her mind laid out different places they could go to, but the more places she thought of the more she saw Coulson all over them. There was the diner on Seventh where he'd assured them that they could handle being part of the Initiative and that he would be supporting them every step of the way. The bagel shop on Third was where he giddily (if the man could ever be described that way) gave as much detail as confidentiality would allow regarding the renewed search for one childhood hero, Captain America. The breakfast burrito truck down the street was where he chewed Natasha out for going rogue during the Warsaw mission, but he'd still paid for her breakfast while doing it.

She was unprepared for how much that hurt. For such an unassuming, quiet man, Natasha now saw him everywhere. This was why she avoided building relationships with others. She'd had enough of this kind of pain before, and she didn't need to add to it.

She tried to gauge a read of how Clint was feeling, but his eyes were hidden behind his trademark sunglasses and the rest of his face betrayed nothing. "What are you in the mood for?"

He paused before answering, "Let's drive around and see what looks good."

They turned and headed towards the underground parking facility. Natasha signed out one of the vehicles for them to use for the day and handed the keys over to Clint. He took them on a path uptown. They found a little diner a few blocks from Central Park. Natasha forced herself to eat some eggs, if for no other reason than to help her body recover from the physical toll of yesterday. Clint seemed to order the entire left side of the menu and was attempting to consume it all as quickly as possible. The sight was nothing new to her, the lack of commentary about the food preparation was. Her eyes flicked back and forth between him and the scenery outside. In this part of the city, everything looked normal. Birds chirped, the sun was shining; it was an abnormally nice day. Her attention was brought back to Clint went he let loose a long sigh. She was shocked at the fact that he didn't need to loosen his belt after everything he'd just eaten. "You're not going to ask me to rub your belly again, are you?"

The left corner of his mouth spasmed upward for a second, but that was all the amusement his face showed. "Want to walk around?"

She nodded. Even though the meeting was to be brief, they'd been at this game too long not to case out a location before completing a mission. Thankfully, their SHIELD issue car let them park in a place that would normally get civilians towed. They walked around using a verbal shorthand they'd developed over the years to point out places of weaknesses and strengths. Natasha caught Clint's fingers twitch from time to time, a nervous tic of his. It wasn't long before the appointed time came and once again the so-called Avengers assembled.

Natasha had taken a step back from everyone just to establish positions and keep an eye on things. Her eyes fell on Clint as he stared down a muzzled Loki. Barton's muscled arms were folded across his chest, and Natasha knew even with the sunglasses covering his face that there was murderous intent in his eyes. Clint had been denied a kill shot, and that never ended well, especially when the archer was holding a grudge. She sauntered past the Asgardian and leaned up into Clint's right ear. "Did you ever see the horns on his helmet? You think he's compensating for something?"

It was the first time she'd seen Clint smirk since before she left for Russia. She knew what he was thinking: he loved challenges, especially the thought of tiny ones. She was grateful that his bow and quiver were in the trunk. It probably wouldn't be good for relations between Asgard and Earth if Loki returned to Odin with an arrow lodged in his crotch.

She watched the scientists handle putting the Tesseract in some specialized container, and then they'd all watched the brothers disappear in a beam of blue energy. She didn't even want to think about all of that magic stuff without a couple of bottles of good vodka within reach. They shook hands with each other and began to disperse. Natasha nudged Clint in the direction of their waiting vehicle. "Let's go back to headquarters. I feel like shooting things."


	4. Chapter 4

The following morning they—Natasha, Steve, Clint, and Colonel Rhodes—stood outside the group gathered at a spot in a cemetery an hour outside of Pittsburgh. The four of them, as well as Stark and Pepper, had flown down from New York that morning, Rhodey changing from one plane to another as he was given leave a mere twelve hours before from his Air Force duties on the West Coast. Bruce stayed behind quietly, admitting that he never really had a chance to meet or talk with Coulson, but the rest of them picked up on the fact that he was a little worried that a twenty-one gun salute might invoke The Other Guy even if Bruce knew it was coming. Stark offered a pair of noise-cancelling earbuds, but Bruce waved him off.

Natasha stood between Clint, who stared off into space while his left hand fidgeted with the cuff of his jacket, and Steve, who jealously eyed Rhodey's dress blues. The only uniform in Rogers' possession at the moment was an outdated version. He'd tried to wear it anyway, but Natasha had to explain that Coulson inherited his love of Captain America from his father. He also inherited Mister Coulson's keen eyes and quick deduction skills. Steve's face fell as he relented and promised to wear a suit that was magically placed in his closet when he awoke, among the rest of his clothes.

It wasn't until the flag-draped coffin was brought out of the hearse and set in place that Tony and Pepper walked up behind them. They agreed to stay behind in the car until things started and leave before things ended so as not to draw attention. None of Coulson's family or friends had any reason to suspect that he worked with, let alone knew, the famous Stark, so Tony did his best to keep a low profile.

Tony had his right arm slung around Pepper's slim waste, and she rested her head on his shoulder. Rhodey quietly clapped his right hand on Tony's left shoulder and left it there. Natasha's left hand drifted away from her body on its own accord, the back of it brushing the back of Clint's right. It took a split second for him to twine in his fingers between hers and squeeze tightly. She kept her head still while looking to her left. Clint's face hadn't changed to the casual observer, but she could see the momentary glimpse inside at the pain that was eating him. Again, she felt lost, unsure of how to hold up her end of the debt she owed him. She wasn't sure which was worse: watching him act like this or the ongoing feeling of not knowing what to do about the situation. The latter was a sensation she was unaccustomed to.

Her eyes slid to the right and she spotted another lost soul. Rogers' eyes were glazed over. He was physically present, but mentally it wasn't Coulson's funeral he was attending. She did the most comforting thing she could think of and slid her right hand between his left elbow and side to take ahold of the crook of his arm. His body seized for a moment before his head dipped a bit and he reached over with his right hand to completely cover the point of contact.

The six of them remained connected to each other like that for the duration of the funeral. She half-listened to the eulogies given by people who didn't really know the man who was Phil Coulson. The only exception was Sitwell. The two of them had gone through the Army and SHIELD together; known each other for over fifteen years. He couldn't give details about what Coulson's was up to for the last five years or so, but his general statements about character and strength were on point and perfect.

Pepper pulled a reluctant Stark back in the direction of their car when things started to wrap up. Rhodes and Rogers remained until the flag that draped the casket was presented to Coulson's mother, and then they too walked back towards the car, Steve giving Natasha's hand a gentle pat before moving away. Natasha remained next to Clint holding his hand until nearly everyone else had cleared out. The few people left were Coulson's parents, siblings, and nieces and nephew. She was able to recognize some from the few personal photos her former handler showed to people he trusted. Others she guessed at their identity based on the anecdotes she'd heard over the years.

She cleared her throat before asking Clint, "Were you wanting to go say something to them?"

He shrugged. "They don't have any reason to know who I am. Besides, aren't we under orders not to communicate with his family for fear of blowing his cover?"

"Since when do we ever follow every order we're given?"

Clint paused before asking, "What would our covers be?"

Natasha shrugged. "I could be his personal assistant. You could be a former Army buddy."

Clint looked her up and down. She wore a black knee-length cotton dress that had three-quarter length sleeves and a high neckline. "Despite the modest appearance, you still look deadly. Not very PA-like. And why would the two of us know each other if we didn't work together?"

Natasha tilted her head slightly to the left, letting her mind easily weave her life into another set of lies. "Coulson set us up on a blind date, we fell head over heels for each other, been together ever since."

"Not totally that far off from the truth." He paused, fingers going back to fidgeting with the cuff of his jacket. She quirked an eyebrow in his direction, but he shook his head. "Nah. I'd rather not. Let's just go."

Natasha nodded. She wanted many things in that moment: she wanted to tell Clint yet again that this wasn't his fault, wanted to take his pain as her own so that his eyes would no longer look empty, wanted Stark in his mad genius to develop time travel technology so she could fix the wrongs.

She wanted her handler back. Coulson was one of the few, if not really the only, voices she trusted to have in her ear giving her orders. She felt safe around him, and she wasn't sure she could ever experience that again with an Agent In Charge. She wanted to go quietly tell the children standing with the family that their uncle bragged about them whenever he could.

What she did not want to do was look at the headstone. She did not want to deal with the finality of it. If she never saw the fact that there were two dates engraved on the black stone, then a part of her could believe that he was still alive and out there somewhere, as foolish and childish a thought as it might be.

Clint tugging on her hand brought her out of her thoughts. Together, they left and joined the other four in the limo parked a ways off so as not to attract attention. The six of them sat in silence as Happy maneuvered them back to the airport where one of Stark's planes was waiting on them. It was Pepper who spoke first.

"I wonder if she was there. Or if anyone even told her what happened. Natasha, do you have her contact information?"

Natasha felt her eyebrows draw together slightly. "Who are you talking about?" she asked, feeling a slight familiarity of returning to the role of Pepper's personal assistant, even if just for a moment.

"Phil's girlfriend."

"He didn't have a girlfriend," Clint answered.

"Yes, he did," Pepper replied. "Well, girlfriend may not be the right term, but there was someone he was seeing. A cellist."

Natasha felt Clint's body tense next to hers. "He say anything else about her?" he asked. Natasha could hear the caution in his tone and felt a similar wave of anxiety within herself.

Pepper nodded. "He mentioned that she just moved to Portland."

Clint and Natasha looked at each other. "You know where?"she asked.

Clint nodded, his mouth suddenly going tight.

"Care to share with the rest of the class?" Tony asked.

Clint turned his attention to watch the scenery passing through his window leaving Natasha to explain. "It's a code. I don't know why he went through Pepper to leave the message, but I'm just glad we got it."

"What's the message?" Steve asked.

"The three of us have drop locations set up. Some pre-planned, some we've set up on spur of the moment, depending on what is happening. The profession of the person designates who knows where the drop location is." She paused and smoothed the hem of her dress out to decide just how much information to give them. Clint cleared his throat, a sign for her to continue. "We had a rule that if we thought we were going to be getting into something over our heads, we'd leave messages for the other two."

"You play the cello?" Steve earnestly asked Clint.

"I use a bow," he answered quietly.

"What would the call sign be if it were you?" Tony asked Natasha.

"Dancer," she answered quickly. His face told her he was about to make a smart retort about that, but raising a red eyebrow shut him up.

"But, wait—" Tony said, his mouth turning into a frown, "why did he leave it in a place where only Agent Barton would find it when he was otherwise… mentally occupied?"

Natasha's brain chewed on the question a moment. It was a fair point to make. Thankfully, Clint already had an answer.

"Because he knew there were four outcomes. One—I would end up dead, while he and Nat would live. Dead men can't read letters and whatever he needed to say to Tasha he could do it face-to-face. Option two—everyone lives happily ever after; no need for letters there." He waited a beat before continuing, his jaw clenching and unclenching. "Option three—Natasha, probably with Coulson in tow, would make off with me and run away until she could get my brain working again." He paused to turn to her. "Which would have been a stupid idea, by the way."

She shrugged, not denying she hadn't considered the possibility.

"Option four?" Steve asked.

"You're looking at it," Clint answered.

"Has it happened before? Leaving letters for each other?" Pepper asked.

Natasha nodded. She'd written letters to Clint and Coulson four times. They never asked each other how many drafts were written between them, only promised that the letters would be delivered if the situation was irreparable. "Only to the point where we leave the letters somewhere, never needed to deliver them."

"So is that the only code? 'A cellist in Portland'? Is this going to be like a scavenger hunt? I could use a good scavenger hunt right now." Tony asked, already pulling out his phone to connect with JARVIS if necessary.

Natasha shook her head. "Not a scavenger hunt. And you're not going to be involved." The last statement, added with her chin raised, made it evident that this was not going to be a team adventure. This was personal, for her and Clint only.

Steve nodded in understanding. "Will you at least let us know if there's anything we can do to help?"

"We can make a pit stop in Portland on the way back, if you need it," Pepper offered.

"We can secure SHIELD transportation. That's not necessary."

"Nah, c'mon, I was planning on heading out to Malibu while we're supposed to be laying low for a couple of weeks anyway," Tony replied, already telling Happy about their change in flight plans. "We'll drop you off. You can stay if you want, or we can wait for you to do—" he paused to wave a hand in the air, "whatever secret spy stuff you need to get done. Up to you."

Natasha looked at Clint. He didn't return the eye contact, but managed to shrug a shoulder. "The beach sounds nice," he quietly offered.

"Whoa, wait, I didn't say anything about you staying at my house."

"Tony," Pepper warned.

He sighed and gave an exaggerated eye roll. "Fine, we'll hit Portland, then Malibu for a few days. Just a few. I've personally already trashed that place once. I don't trust all of you there for very long. Especially after what just happened to my brand new tower."

"_Your_ new tower?" Pepper asked.

"Yes, my new tower."

"You said it was my baby."

"I was also trying to get you to spend the night. It was built with my name in lights on the outside of it."

"Well, now it just has the letter A."

"A letter that is not found in your name."

"Virginia," Pepper responded slowly, with a loud emphasis on the final syllable.

"Why did I get my hopes up for New York pizza?" Rhodey asked himself.

Tony rolled his eyes again. "First of all, Virginia Tower sounds dumb, especially when it's in New York. And way too many letters to hang on a building, by the way. Second, Rhodes, I've told you I am more than willing to buy a pizza place, ship it out west and have it installed on base. Been offering for years."

Natasha leaned back into her seat, letting Tony and Pepper's squabbling and Rhodey and Steve's discussion on the current state of military rations dissolve into white noise. She appeared to turn her attention to her blood-red fingernails, but inside her mind raced. Before the day was over, it would be possible for her receive the last set of orders Coulson would ever give her. She wasn't ready for that.

Natasha felt her control start to slip; this whole being compromised thing was becoming exhausting and terrifying. She heard in her mind the screams of a little girl watching her home burn, listened to the terror of losing everything familiar. She tried to tell herself that this wasn't that bad, wasn't that extreme, but it didn't help her regain control. On missions when she felt like this, she would mentally repeat her cover's information like a mantra, using the false identity to wipe away the stain that was actually Natasha. But she wasn't on an op; she couldn't erase herself and slip into someone else's skin, become another person who didn't have this problem.

She felt Clint's eyes turn onto her. "Tasha?" he breathed.

She couldn't answer. She was too busy focusing on keeping a normal breathing pattern, and it wasn't working.

"We don't have to do this if you don't want to. It can wait. We don't have to get them at all."

Natasha gave her head a small shake. "We have orders."


	5. Chapter 5

**NOTES:** A ginormous thanks to **KrisEleven** for making this readable. You're a fantastic beta.

* * *

They changed clothes en route to the West Coast. Barton trading his suit for a pair of faded jeans and a black t-shirt that was tight across his strong upper body. Natasha lost the dress in favor of black skinny jeans under black knee-high leather boots. A blue scoop neck shirt under her black leather jacket completed her look. Rogers changed out of his suit, too, in favor of what Natasha began to label his civilian uniform: khakis and a collared, plaid shirt. Stark, Pepper, and Rhodey remained in the clothes they wore to their funeral, each too used to wearing suits and a uniform to have to change out of them to feel comfortable.

The trip out west took a few hours, and they spent it in relative silence. Pepper sat leaning against Tony as the two spoke in hushed tones and debated about something on the tablet Stark held. Rhodey pulled files out of the messenger bag beside him and began to go through reports. Steve sat off by himself, staring out the window for a bit before nodding off: ever the soldier, getting sleep when and where possible. Natasha found herself envious of that ability.

She turned her eyes to the remaining passenger. Clint sat with his dirty combat boots on the sleek, polished table in the cabin. He pulled an arrow from the quiver he brought with him and rolled the shaft mindlessly between his fingers while staring at nothing out the window.

Natasha took a seat across from him. There was a slight rise to his shoulders, anticipation of her trying to talk him out of his… whatever he was stuck in, but she couldn't muster the energy. She couldn't bring herself to try because she was feeling herself slip further and further into something similar herself.

There were questions she wanted to ask, but she knew better than to do it here and now. Before she left for the mission to Russia that ended with orders to pick up Banner in India, Clint and Coulson had finally managed to at least fess up to a mutual attraction and to try to see where things could go. It had taken a not-too-gentle shove from Nat, well worth the tongue lashing she'd received from Coulson over it.

She'd known for a few years that their handler was attracted to Clint. It wasn't easy to pick up on; Coulson rarely let his true feelings show, at least when it came to his personal life. The way he couldn't focus on anything when Clint was laid up in medical was her first clue, and then other tiny signs and looks given when he, mistakenly, thought Natasha wasn't paying attention. She also knew Coulson would never act on his feelings. He didn't want to put his agents in compromising situations. He'd rather repress his feelings than make things awkward if the relationship went south; Barton was too valuable an asset to SHIELD, and Coulson was the only one who could work with him on a regular basis. She was also pretty sure that Coulson also believed that Barton would never return the affection. It was one of the few topics where Nat regards her handler as an idiot.

And then there was Clint's side of things. It took Nat's blunt suggestion of them to just screw already to force him to realize what exactly his feelings meant. She'd never openly discussed his feelings with Clint, but she was good at reading his expressions and what they meant; she'd been doing it for over half a decade now. It wasn't that Clint didn't trust her, she knew he did. But with Coulson there also came a sense of safety. Clint felt safe around Coulson, safer and more at ease than he was around anyone else, including her. Part of her – the irrational part of her mind that was still sad five years later that the two of them never worked as a couple – felt a bit jealous that Coulson earned that place in Clint's respect instead of her.

Nat knew that no words could make him feel any better. So she focused her attention on the mission at hand. "You want to go over the plan?"

Barton rolled his eyes. "We're picking up letters, not taking out a head of state."

She shrugged. "I'd still like to know what the plan is."

Clint paused a moment to gather his thoughts and turned his eyes to the tip of the arrow being spun in between his fingers. "It's a used bookstore near downtown. We spent a few hours one mission browsing their selections to kill time after an op finished. Coul—" The name cut off with a slight grimace and Clint has to swallow before continuing. "He struck up a conversation with the owners. Not surprisingly, he found something they had in common, something about an old jazz trumpet player, and you know how those things go."

Natasha nodded. She'd seen it plenty of times over the years they spent together. The mild-mannered, polite man could strike up a friendly conversation with a brick wall and get it to share all of its secrets. This technique was helpful in extracting information and also prevented drawing suspicion when they walked into some place new with dirty clothes, tired faces, and possibly actual blood on their hands.

"You should get some rest."

Clint's words were not the ones she expected and she felt her eyebrows draw together in confusion.

He moved his eyes from the arrowhead to her face. "I know I haven't been the best person to share a bed with the last couple of nights. Take a cue from Cap and get some shut eye."

She sighed and shook her head as an answer.

"I'm not kidding, Nat. Get some sleep. We've got about an hour before we land. Just that long at least."

She started to feel her temper to rise and had to bite her tongue. There's only one person she took orders from and he was gone. Sure Clint could give her crap about exhaustion, but he didn't usually do it this way. He usually insulted her appearance; he didn't act sweet or polite. He was trying to be Coulson. He was trying to take care of her.

"That's not how this is supposed to work." Her words caused a look of confusion to cross his face. "I'm supposed to be the one taking care of you."

"Just because you're like actually…" he paused and frowned quickly, unsure of what to say around the people he only met a few days ago, "the age you are, doesn't make you my mother."

"That's not why."

"Then what is it?"

She dropped her gaze to her red nails. "I owe you a debt."

"I'm pretty sure I've only borrowed money from you, not the other way around."

She rolled her eyes. "Not like that. You saved my life. You were ordered to kill me and you didn't. I owe you a debt."

"For God's sake, Nat, you saved my life a dozen times over. We're even."

"Not like that."

He stilled for a moment, paused to look out the window. He kept his gaze there a moment before turning blue eyes back on her. "I should not be sitting here right now, and we both know it. Trust me—we're even."

She weighed his words, and found some truth in them. Some. She'd still mother hen him; she has for years, why stop now? She just wished she wasn't the only one carrying the burden.

"C'mere," Clint whispered as he grabbed her hand. He led the two of them across the cabin to an unoccupied sofa. He sat and pulled her down next to him. By reflex she curled up with her head resting in his lap. His fingers put down the arrow shaft and instead find a tendril of fiery locks to resume their twisting pattern. Normally she'd threaten death for tangling her hair. Normally he'd be singing her his version of a lullaby, which was typically a soft power ballad from the eighties. But nothing was normal anymore.

* * *

Barton nudged her awake an hour later. She remained still until she remembered where she was and whom she was with, then she sat up. Tony stood by the door to exit the private jet with Happy. "He'll take you wherever you need to go. We'll be waiting here till you're done."

Natasha shared a look with Clint, and his tightened jaw was all she needs to see. "If you could just give us the keys, we'd prefer to go alone."

Happy looked to his boss, who sighed and nodded, before handing over the fob. "It's a keyless ignition system."

"Don't crash my car," Tony warned.

"Like your insurance rates could get any higher," Natasha countered.

When they exited the plane and walk down the mobile staircase that had been rolled up flush with the fuselage, she extended the fob to Clint, who shook his head. "You can drive. I'll navigate."

His directions are the only words spoken on the way there. Natasha parked the flashy sports car in the back parking lot in hopes of drawing as little attention to them as possible. They walked in silence around the brick exterior and through the front doors. A soft bell chimed a notice of their entrance and she took a moment to let the musty smell of dust, paper, and ink fill her senses. Clint stepped around her and moved stiffly to the counter where a college-aged kid had his nose buried in a battered copy of To Kill A Mockingbird. He looked up at the sound of Clint clearing his throat.

"Can I help you something?" he asked while his brown eyes flicked back and forth between Clint and Natasha.

"I was looking for a Saxton Pope book," Clint answered.

The clerk's eyes grew round as he replied in a hesitant tone, "We only have second edition copies available."

"I'll take whatever you have in the back," Clint responded in a tone to anyone else would sound bored but Natasha recognized the effort to restrain emotion.

"Holy shit—that actually worked? Oh my god." He ran his hands through his mess of dark curls before leaning in, "Are you guys like spies or something?"

Clint put on his no-nonsense face. "Do you have it or not?"

"Oh! Yeah, it's in the back. I'll go get it."

Natasha rolled her eyes a little as he disappeared behind the curtain. "Poor boy. It's entirely possible this is the most exciting thing that will ever happen to him in his life." She waited for Clint's retort, but it never came. He was too busy studying the grain pattern of the wooden counter.

The young clerk emerged a moment later with two non-descript envelopes in his hand. He extended them out to Clint, who took them with a nod before moving towards the entrance.

"Wait, that's it?" the kid asked. "I was kind of hoping to see what was in there."

Natasha shook her head. "Sorry, kid."

She and Clint silently made their way back to the car. She looked over to Clint's lap before she pushed the button for the ignition. The envelopes were white, no markings save for one with a "B" and one with an "R". Even only looking at two letters, she knew the handwriting like her own. She wonders how old the letters are, when Coulson would have had time to write them with the world falling down around them.

"Do you need me to drive?" Clint asked quietly, pulling Natasha from her thoughts.

She shook her head. "I'll be fine," she answered as she plucked the letter marked for her from his lap and gently placed it in a pocket inside her leather jacket. Natasha then pulled out of the parking lot and began the journey back to the airport. Out of the corner of her eye she caught Clint tracing the B on the front of the envelope over and over again with his index finger. She bit her tongue from making a joke about how he was going to rub the ink off of the paper. Instead she asked the question she herself doesn't know the answer to: "When are you going to read yours?"

He shrugged. "On the plane? If I can get some privacy. If not, I'll wait till we get to Malibu. You?"

"I don't know. Part of me wants to get the orders as soon as possible. The other part of me knows that as soon as I do…"

"You won't hear anything new from him again," Clint finished for her quietly. "I get that. But I have to know."

"Know what?"

Clint's jaw worked to form words that won't come, so he gave up and shrugged. Natasha wanted to push but left it. They rode in silence the rest of the way back. Happy was standing on the tarmac waiting for them as she killed the engine. She passed the key fob off to him and waited for him to pull away before gently grabbing Clint's left elbow. "If you want me to make some room for you, all you have to do is ask."

He looked over her left shoulder and down the runway weighing his options before nodding his approval.

Thankfully Pepper, as usual, was already one step ahead of them. When they re-entered the cabin, she let the pair know that there was a small bedroom in the back of the plane that was empty if they needed some privacy. Clint muttered his thanks before shuffling to the back. Natasha watched him go, debating on whether or not to join him, but left him be when he shut the door behind him without looking back to her.

She turned her eyes to the bar to look for a familiar bottle. Tony must have predicted her reaction because he was already standing there pouring clear liquid into a crystal tumbler. He set it on the bar with a quick quirk at the corner of his lips that served as an apologetic understanding before moving to the couch where Pepper just sat and joined in on a conference call with her.

Natasha took the tumbler, refrained from grabbing the bottle as well, and sat in a chair near the cockpit. Steve sat across the aisle from her reading something on a tablet. "Mission accomplished?" he asked without looking up.

"Yes," she answered.

He nodded and worked his jaw around before continuing, "I know what it's like to lose men, if you need someone to talk to."

Natasha clamped her jaw to prevent herself from an acerbic reply. From what little she knew about Steve Rogers personally, she was certain that he was always honest and meant well. She nodded an acknowledgement before turning her attention out the window. She spent the next couple of hours watching the coast line move underneath them, trying to still her mind. She managed to stick to the one drink and never looked over her shoulder at the still-closed door where Clint was. Natasha considered both of those things substantial victories.

She was about to move towards the back of the plane to retrieve Clint once they hit the runway in California, but he emerged when she was halfway there. He quickly ducked into the lavatory, but Natasha was still able to notice his eyes looked puffy and red.

Everyone gathered their belongings. Steve pointed out that they only had the clothes they were wearing and those they wore to the funeral. Tony waved him off and said that he already had JARVIS taking care of whatever they needed for their impromptu vacation. Rogers only looked marginally reassured by that statement.

The group began to disembark and Natasha waited for Clint to come out. When he did, he had been mostly able to pull himself together. She knew what to look for, but he might be able to hide his pain from the others. She raised a single eyebrow at him as a silent query to check his condition. He ducked his head and moved past her to exit the plane. Not good.

In the limo, Tony laid down some house rules. Rogers was the only one who paid attention, or who cared. Natasha had been there before and knew the layout. She kept her attention on Clint. His letter wasn't in sight, but she was sure he'd read it. His eyes were looking hollow again and Natasha was feeling exhausted by all the grasping at straws she was having to do in order to keep him afloat. She was exhausted and it was only three days since Coulson had died. How much longer would she be able to sustain herself?

Not for the first time she kicked herself for allowing herself to get attached to people. Her Red Room training screamed at her for being sloppy and soft.

Her mental berating was cut short when Happy deposited them at Tony's house. Stark quickly ran them through a tour of the place and assigned rooms to everyone before moving to the basement and sealing himself up in his workshop. Natasha noticed how Pepper followed him with worried eyes, but didn't press the matter. The remainder of the group stood in the kitchen wondering what they should do now. Clint made the choice for himself by grabbing a bottle of tequila and moving off towards the bedrooms.

"I'm not dragging your drunk ass off of a roof," Natasha warned as he stalked off.

He replied with a wave of his right hand and she heard a door close. Good. At least he wasn't going to go hide somewhere in a perch. At least, not for now.

That left Natasha and lost and awkward looking Steve in the kitchen. "So," he said, dragging out the syllable, "anything you want to do?"

She felt the weight of the letter resting in her jacket pocket. She wasn't ready for it, not yet anyway. Her mind once more quickly went through the layout of the house and what it had to offer. "I want to punch something."

He let out a quick huff of laughter. "Understandable."

"There's a sparring room off that hallway," she said while pointing. "Meet you there in fifteen? If you want to spar or something."

"No, I'd like that. See you in fifteen."

She walked into the bedroom she's sharing with Clint to find it dark and him sprawled on his back. She isn't sure if the grimace on his face is from his still bruised backside, the bite of the alcohol, or just being pissed at the current state of his life. "Are you going to be okay?" She doesn't know exactly the time frame her own question is referencing, whether it's just for tonight or for however long in the future.

His voice was gruff when he answered, "I'm the reason why we can't have nice things."

Natasha's eyes fell to the ground as the running gag the three of them have had for years is spoken aloud. It's common joke: Clint destroying something (not always accidently) with an explosive arrow or putting his dirty boots up on the furniture or having a one-night stand with a SHIELD agent who arranges safe-houses and forgetting her name two days later, instigating a trade from the posh villa they were supposed to have in Italy to a roach-infested motel.

The pain was soaked in his voice. She removed her boots before climbing into bed with him. Reaching over, she pulled his frame flush with hers. While she held him she noted that he'd put an impressive dent into the tequila in the short time he'd been alone.

He was stiff against her for a moment, but then crumbled and held onto her with all his might. His strong arms made it difficult for her to breathe so she wiggled slightly until her lungs could reach normal capacity. She reached up with her left hand to run her nails through his hair while whispering nonsense to him in Russian. Even she wasn't fully aware of the words falling from her mouth. The only thing she was aware of is how ready she is for this nightmare to be over.

They stayed that way for a while before Clint went limp in her arms. She debated whether or not to stay but could tell by the sound of his breathing that he was sleeping deeply and wouldn't notice if she slipped off for a while or not. She changed into workout clothes quickly, taking special care in leaving the letter on the top of a set of drawers in the room.

She padded barefoot back down the stairs and grabbed a couple of bottles of water from the fridge on the way to the workout room. Steve was warming up on a speed bag when she entered.

"Wasn't sure you were going to make," he said with a soft smile that faltered when he got a good look at her. "You want to talk about it?"

"No."

He nodded, and didn't push. Instead he maneuvered his large body between the ropes with grace that impressed even her. "I promise I'll go easy on you."

She set the bottles of water down on the ground before joining him in the ring. "That makes one of us."

His eyebrows lifted at the challenge. "Or I can go full out, but—"

"If you're reasoning has something to do with the fact that I'm a woman—"

"But," he cut back in, commanding tone now in full effect, "we had a major battle a few days ago, and not all of us have serum to help us heal quickly."

"I'm fine."

He eyed her up and down with a critical stare. "Actually fine or just saying that? I had men who would volunteer for mission after mission when times got tough because feeling pain was the only way they could feel something."

She paused to consider her own motivation. She could certainly understand the mindset of those men, had been there before herself, but this wasn't one of those times. She needed to get aggression out and Rogers seemed like the safest option at the moment. "It's not like that," she answered.

He looked at her with piercing blue eyes for a moment more before nodding and rising his hands up in a defensive posture. The two began circling each other and it was Natasha who made the first strike by whipping a kick to his left side. He blocked it and threw a punch towards her head. She rolled out of the way and used her momentum to swing his feet out from under him. He jumped over the attempt.

The two danced around each other for an hour, neither having a strong advantage. Every time she felt he was easing up, she charged with more fervor until she felt he was using the appropriate amount of force with her. Finally, he managed to pin her to the mat. His body covered hers as the two regulated their breathing. She waited for him to get up, but he stayed for a moment. "I think you proved your point," she said.

His eyes widened as he realized the position they were in and he quickly scrambled off of her. "Sorry, I didn't mean—I mean I know you're with—that wasn't my intention—"

She pushed her right hand against his mouth to stop the babbling. "It's fine, Cap. And I'm not with anyone. You're not stepping on anyone's toes."

He looked confused. "I thought you and Barton were together. I mean, you're sharing a bedroom."

She shook her head. "All we do is sleep."

"Oh, okay. You just seem really close."

He wasn't going to let it go, so Natasha had to quickly decide how much information to share. "We tried it for a bit, but things were always hot and explosive, and not necessarily in a good way. Decided we were better off as friends."

"Who still share a bed? Is that a normal thing now?"

She shook her head. "No, I don't think so. But look at us all; can we really ever be described as normal?"

He shrugged, stood, and offered his hand to help her up. "I think I should get some rest. And I think you should do the same."

She nodded and moved out of the ring. She could feel the tension mounting in him and turned to look at him until he finally spoke.

"Have you read your letter yet?"

"No," she answered quietly.

He nodded and took a moment to pull a long drink from the water bottle she left him. "It's not my place to say, but if I had one chance to say goodbye to the people I loved, I would've taken it and I would want them to read it."

She wanted to get mad at him for sticking his nose in her business, but the pain that he tried so hard to keep off his face all the time slipped into his eyes and she looked away. She couldn't find an answer to give him, so she walked away.

Back in the bedroom she was sharing with a snoring Clint, she grabbed a clean pair of underwear and one of Clint's t-shirts before heading off to the attached bathroom to grab a shower. She quickly cleaned herself and wrapped a towel around her wet hair. She exited the bathroom, grabbed the letter and moved out onto the balcony that was attached to their room. As she stepped outside, a set of lights came on allowing a soft glow to light the small area. "Thanks, JARVIS," Natasha commented.

"You're quite welcome, Miss Romanoff. Please let me know if there is anything else I can do to be of assistance."

She settled herself into an overstuffed chair and took a moment to breathe in the salty air and listen to the waves crash below her. Taking a deep breath, she cursed her fingers for shaking as she opened the envelope and removed the letter.

_Tasha—_

_I'm writing this on the Helicarrier. You're currently in India bringing in Doctor Banner. And Clint is, as you know, compromised._

_I don't know what's going to happen. We've seen too much in the last year to believe that this won't escalate to magnificent proportions. I find the thought terrifying. _

_But not nearly as terrifying as the thought of losing my agents. _

_I can feel my controls starting to slip whenever I think about it, so odds are if you're reading this, it's because I've done something you probably think is stupid. But whatever I did, I had to try._

_Clint's been compromised. You and I have both received assignments where we've been instructed to remedy a situation like this one. I know I've eliminated several former co-workers, and I know you've received orders to do the same. I can't let that happen to him. I refuse. And I certainly won't let them order you to be the one to do it._

_So know that whatever I did, I did it for the two of you. I can hear you saying that you know how to take care of yourself, but let me have this one._

_It has been an absolute privilege working as your handler for the last six years. I was wrong to doubt Clint's choice in bringing you in. And don't think he reminds me of it all the time. _

_My wish for you is that for one instance you could see yourself the way I see you. Not as some breathing weapon created to rain hell on enemies, but as a fiercely intelligent and competent woman who is so much more than those who created her to be designed for her._

_Get Clint back. Take care of each other. Don't piss off the agents who take over as your handlers. _

_At least try for two out of three._

_-P_


	6. Chapter 6

**NOTES:** Sorry for the delay in updating; life happened.

* * *

Natasha awoke the following morning to an empty bed. JARVIS greeted her with a report of the weather, and a note that Clint had left an hour ago to run. She debated whether or not to roll over and go back to sleep, but decided to go ahead and face the day. As she sat up, she noticed a letter on the nightstand on Clint's side of the bed. On instinct, she reached over to grab it; ever the spy, she wanted to inhale every piece of information she could. But then her brain awoke a bit more, and reminded her exactly what the letter was and what it meant. Coulson was always extremely respectful of their privacy, and she needed to return the favor. Whatever words he left behind for Clint would remain for Clint alone, until he decided it was okay for her to hear or read them.

She padded to the bathroom and turned the shower on to just the safe side of scalding. Once she had scrubbed a layer of skin off of her, a habit she had in the shower regardless of whether or not she had just returned from an op, she threw on a pair of yoga pants and one of Clint's shirts that she claimed as her own years ago. She made her way down to an empty kitchen. Someone was already awake, or JARVIS had anticipated her presence, because there was already coffee brewing. She hunted down a mug and some creamer before grabbing a spare tablet lying on the counter and sitting on the couch with a direct line of sight to the front entrance. She downloaded a handful of reports and updates from SHIELD to read as she drank her coffee and waited for Clint to return.

It was Steve who entered the door first. Natasha must not have been as subtle at watching the door as she hoped because a small smile crossed his face as he announced, "He's about two hundred yards behind me."

She nodded, but didn't acknowledge him any further. Sure enough, Clint came wheezing through the door a few minutes later. She crooked a single eyebrow at him as he collapsed onto the ground in front of her.

"Don't challenge Captain America to a foot race."

The left side of her mouth crooked itself into a small grin. "Idiot."

"No kidding. I thought if I made the distance long enough I could have a chance. Nope. I'm just going to lie here for a while. Maybe I'll catch my breath in an hour."

"Just don't get too much sweat on Stark's rug."

"I'll second that," Stark declared as he came up the stairs from his workshop and continued on to his room, presumably to finally fall asleep despite it now being morning. He tried to hide the pain he was still in from the aftermath of the Battle of New York as he moved, but wasn't successful, not to Natasha's eyes at least. She moved her focus to Clint. The scrapes on his arms from where he'd crashed through a window were healing, and he'd gone back to sleeping on his backside, so she assumed that was healing, too. She was nearly back to full-on fighting shape, thanks to her biological enhancements at the hands of Russian scientists, and she was positive Rogers' serum had any injuries he'd incurred healed within a few hours.

The emotional damage was another thing. She could read Clint trying to put on a brave face, trying to push down emotions that were churning inside. Natasha was willing to bet that Clint had wanted to run on his own this morning in an effort to exhaust himself physically in an attempt to focus his mind. She was also fairly certain that Steve had challenged him to a contest on purpose to appeal to his ego so that the Captain could have an excuse to keep an eye on his teammate for an hour or two. She wasn't sure whether she should feel grateful or territorial about that.

She was brought out of her reverie by a none-too-gentle kick to her ankle. "Watch it," she warned.

"What are they saying?" Clint asked as he stretched his legs.

Natasha shrugged. "Just mainly reports on how clean up is going. Still don't have a full count on damage costs. They think they've finalized numbered injured or killed. The Helicarrier is twenty miles outside of New York. They should be finished with engine repairs by tonight."

"Anything else?" he asked quietly.

Natasha didn't need him to elaborate to know what information he was hunting for. Fury still hadn't said what would be done with Clint. She pretended not to notice that his go bag had been placed right inside their bedroom door. She herself could up and leave with him at a moment's notice, and it wasn't like she hadn't considered the possibility of it happening. Natasha had options, either going out on her own or aligning herself with the seedier organizations that inhabited the underbelly of society, and she would gladly take Clint with her. She knew Coulson hoped that they would stay with SHIELD, but he also said that they should at least try for two of his three requests. Even he knew that if the two agents felt threatened, they wouldn't stick around. And if their handler was still around, it was entirely possible that Coulson would flee with them. But that wasn't an option now.

"Nothing here about you," she answered. "You know if they wanted to take you out, they would've done it already. I'm sure you're fine."

"I'm the only one on the planet who had a hand in orchestrating all of this, Tasha. They're going to want someone to blame."

"Selvig was there, too."

He gave her an incredulous look. "You really think they're going to prosecute an older, overweight scientist over a black ops assassin?" Yes, even she knew her comment was a stretch.

"No one is being prosecuted," a familiar voice announced as Director Fury entered the house.

"Does Stark know you're here?" Natasha asked.

"Do you think I care?" he responded as he moved to the bar to make himself a drink.

"Little early in the morning for that, sir, don't you think?"

"Do I need to repeat my previous question, Agent?"

Natasha shrugged and tried to keep a nonchalant expression on her face as she leaned back into the couch. She hoped Fury would keep his word about not taking in Clint, because she lacked weapons on her person. She began to discretely look around the room to take an inventory of what she could use in a pinch. Clint remained still on the ground.

Fury move towards them and sat down on the opposite end of the ring of couches from Natasha. "I'm here to assure you both that nothing will happen with Agent Barton."

"Why?" Clint asked.

"Because you were not in control of your actions." Fury paused to let Clint scoff at the remark. "And because Phil Coulson made it clear that if we could get you back in one piece, he would not tolerate you being treated as a hostile."

Natasha fought the urge to smirk. Coulson never gossiped, but he always listened. He wondered just how long and extensive the amount of dirt he possessed had to be in order to keep Fury quiet. "That's it?" she asked unconvinced. "Nothing is going to happen?"

Fury shook his head. "The world needs heroes right now. I'm fine with keeping the blame on the aliens. If anyone on the team is going to have publicity issues and pressure for vengeance, it'll be Thor. If he ever comes back anyway. No one knows who Barton is or his involvement."

"SHIELD does," Clint countered.

"And as Director, I'm ordering them to leave it alone. You want to disobey orders, Agent? Now it's not like you aren't going to see about a dozen shrinks to make sure your head is your own. But you will not be treated as a war criminal, or any other kind of criminal, you have my word."

"What about missions?" he asked.

"You all are still on mandatory leave for the next couple of weeks. Once psych clears you—and only when psych clears you, so play nice the both of you—you may return to whatever business we may need you for, be it with the Initiative or solo missions."

"Who's taking over as our handler?" Natasha asked, trying to keep her voice from sounding tight.

Fury sighed, "That one is still up in the air."

"Sitwell," Natasha suggested.

The Director shook his head. "Blake has him tasked to recover alien tech at the moment. Who knows how long that will take."

_Hopefully less than two weeks_, Natasha thought. It was going to be hard enough going back into the field without Coulson's voice in her ear, but having to deal with someone new would be bad. Working with someone who had already worked with either Clint or her would be even worse since Coulson and Sitwell were the only ones who could truly handle Strike Team Delta on an op. She could hear her late handler in her mind right now reminding her to play nice with others. She would try, if only for him, but she couldn't promise it would last all that long.

Fury rose from the couch. "Any idea where Captain Rogers might be?" JARVIS took the opportunity to answer and instructed the Director to make his way to the gym. Fury did so muttering about creepy, talking ceilings the whole way.

Natasha took the opportunity to return the favor of kicking Clint. He didn't make any kind of response. She slid off the couch and lay on her stomach next to him and waited. It was twenty minutes before he spoke. "I don't deserve a get out of jail free card."

She shrugged. "Neither did I, but you gave it to me anyway." She picked at the rug and checked to make sure Fury wasn't about to walk into the room before continuing. "Still want to run?"

Clint worked his jaw before answering. "If he fought this hard to keep me out of trouble, I think I better stay, don't you?" He didn't wait for her to answer, but got up and moved up the stairs to their bedroom.

Fury left as quietly as he came. The group spent the next two days in awkwardness around each other. They can apparently save the world, but hanging out with each other is full of uncomfortable silences that usually lead to sparring matches in the gym, since that seems to be a common language they all share.

They fly back to the East Coast, and Bruce greets them when they all return to the Tower. Natasha is surprised to still see him there; apparently whatever toys Stark has in his possession are too enticing to leave behind. Tony puts them up in rooms on some of the lower levels, and then he spends all day (or night) either mending damage from Loki's efforts or redesigning the top floors so that they each have their own private level. He does as much of the work as he can by himself, not wanting to deprive construction crews from cleaning up the mess that was made against the Chitauri. The others pitch in where they can. If they don't know how to help Tony, then they put on a hat and pair of sunglasses and go volunteer with clean-up crews out on the street.

They don't really talk to each other. They just go and try to make amends for things that weren't really their fault. Natasha keeps an eye on Clint. He gets jumpy around any senior agents from SHIELD who drops by to hand off reports to keep them apprised of what's happening in the world, but he's still quiet. He doesn't drink himself to sleep anymore, but he doesn't make noise the way he used to. He doesn't sing; he doesn't have a ceaseless commentary. The haunted look in his eyes slowly fades a tiny bit with each morning, but they don't talk about it. They're all ordered to visit psych a few times a week. Clint goes without causing any trouble, another piece of odd behavior, and Natasha wonders for the millionth time what final orders Coulson left him to behaving in such a compliant manner. She does her duty and plays along, too. Her shrink tells her to keep a journal. She's written one sentence so far: "This is stupid." It was written in Cyrillic.

The two week time frame passes, and they all, minus Thor whom no one has heard anything from, reconvene in the briefing room with Assistant Director Maria Hill. She informs them that they are not needed as a team to deal with anything, yet anyways. She gives them new phones that include a way to send out an Assemble call for everyone to gather if they're needed. Stark promises everyone that they'll have the latest Stark phone with the same capabilities by that evening. Hill rolls her eyes, but doesn't fight it. Natasha knows the other woman is a professional at picking her battles.

Maria dismisses everyone but asks Clint and Natasha to hang back. She explains that they need some recon done on some low level players to gather information on how the seedier side of the world might be trying to take advantage of SHIELD being preoccupied. Natasha knows this is a test mission for both of them. There's no way Fury would wait two weeks to gather information like this, as if the fact that they're spying on names that are rarely dangerous enough to make Natasha's radar wasn't obvious enough. But she keeps her mouth shut and does what she's told.

Clint is sent with Agent Woo to the Middle East, while Natasha is tasked with Agent Angstrum to Tokyo. Natasha leans over and mutters a "Trade you", which Clint ignores. They're both set to leave in the morning, and if all goes well, he'll make it back before she will.

It does and he is. She spent the entire time being bored out of her skull, but played the good little agent. She doesn't hear anyone complaining about Barton and his usual antics when she debriefs on the fully recovered Helicarrier, so she assumes he behaved himself, too.

Thor returns two weeks later. He tells the others of the prison his father has created to contain Loki. Natasha tries to take comfort in the fact that somewhere justice is being dealt to the murderer, but it doesn't help her. If anything, Clint has rubbed off on her again and she picks up on his uneasiness around Thor. Neither lets it affect them during battles, but when they're off-duty, she never feels like she can settle around him. Clint is the same. It's a long way from the phone call she received from New Mexico late one night where he laughed his way through telling a story about some blond hunk of meat who tried to pull a hammer out of a rock.

Their new pattern continues for another three months: receive a low-level assignment, be paired with a different handler, mind your manners, come back home. They don't make a fuss, they follow protocol, they do what is asked of them by both their handlers and Coulson. Part of her feels like they should be fighting against the good behavior, channeling their old selves. But instead, she finds herself being sucked down into Clint's constant state of nothingness. Most days it's just easier to drown in it, not fight it, don't bother moving if you don't have to, than to rebel against it. The higher-ups at SHIELD think that Coulson left them able to fall into line. They're thrilled that they can be assigned to any handler without incident. They fail to see that the reason they're behaving this way is that they're incomplete. They cannot act like they used to because they are no longer whole.

The rest of the team, on the other hand, is a different story. They're called together as the Avengers at least once a week. Mostly it's to deal with minor skirmishes, bad guys wanting to test their mettle to see what will be required when they actually find the opportunity to launch a full-scale attack.

The others, mainly Rogers and Stark, take every chance they can get to nitpick when whatever agent is assigned to them messes up. It's their turn to cause a high turnover rate for a handler position. Three months after the Battle of New York, Fury has had enough with the two and mercifully pulls Sitwell off of his Chitauri tech analysis assignment to handle the Initiative. Natasha watches the bald man's face during the meeting where it's announced. He looks miserable. She knows it's not because he's afraid he can't handle the team, because he can and he will. He looks awful because the last thing he ever wanted to do was fill his friend's shoes.

Unlike all the other senior agents strutting around, Sitwell recognizes that he is not as good, not nearly as good, as Phil Coulson was on a bad day. The senior agents around SHIELD misinterpret their ability to handle Black Widow and Hawkeye successfully on ops makes them equal to Coulson. It makes Natasha sick, but she keeps her mouth closed. She lets them run their mouths because one day they will all realize just how wrong they are.

Once Jasper is set in place as their liason, things get somewhat better. The first time Tony starts picking one of Sitwell's ideas apart, Natasha glares at him until he shuts up. It's not like she hasn't seen all the mistakes the other agents have made before, but she won't tolerate Stark taking out his anger on Jasper. If anyone has a clue as to the incomplete feeling she and Clint can't make their way out of, it's Sitwell. He's one of the few who is respectful of Coulson's memory, and she will not tolerate him being treated poorly because even though most of them don't want to admit it, they're still licking their wounds from the loss.

They eventually start to gel as a unit both on the battlefield and off. After a couple of months, both Natasha and Clint realize that Thor isn't out to get them. That he was just as much of a victim in Loki's attack as they were. But despite the healing that happens there and relationships they start building with each other, Natasha still feels somewhat empty; it's like she's trying to go through life with a missing limb. Or maybe this is what life is supposed to feel like. Maybe she just had a great thing going for a few years—an outlier—and now she is back to within what is considered within the range of normal.

Whatever the case, her world was turned upside down yet again five months after the Chitauri attacked. Hill was the one representing SHIELD higher-ups in their big debriefings that happened once a month to recap everything that occurred in the last four weeks. Usually Fury was there, but today he was apparently taking care of something in Paris. Natasha didn't think twice about it, not until three hours later when an unknown sender emailed her a picture of the Director and the person he met. A person who looked identical to one Agent Phil Coulson.


	7. Chapter 7

**NOTES:** Here it is, folks: the final chapter. This is the first multi-chapter story I've written in over four years, and this is something I didn't think I'd ever do again. Thank you all so much for reading and commenting, I greatly appreciate it.

You'll note that if you've read "Return of the Son of Coul", some part of this is going to look very familiar because it's Natasha's POV on the scene.

Thanks again for reading this!

* * *

When images of a man who looked exactly like Phil Coulson meeting with Directory Fury in a café were emailed by an anonymous sender to Natasha and Clint's phones, things went south and fast. The two used JARVIS to pinpoint the location of the meeting, and once Paris was confirmed, they immediately put in calls and feelers with their various contacts to see if they'd heard any rumblings. Forty minutes later, one of Natasha's confirmed that it was indeed a man who looked and sounded exactly like their former handler, and that man had left with Fury. The two had flown out of the country with plans on returning to New York.

They did not react well to this bit of news.

Clint grabbed his bow and quiver and stalked down the shooting range. He'd been known to storm out of meetings once in a while, but never from a meal, so when he did this in the middle of dinner with the team, Natasha knew she was going to have to do some explaining. Instead of taking the time to walk them through the intel they'd gathered over the last two hours, she told them to check their phones in ten minutes' time and went after Clint.

She typed a message to the other four men on the team to let them know what had happened. Natasha succinctly explained that they had credible data that Coulson, or someone who looked and sounded exactly like him, was alive and on his way back to New York. Thankfully, after five months of working together, the team knew to give the two SHIELD assassins some space. Thor rejoiced at the news, Steve expressed cautious optimism, and Bruce and Tony started to do whatever they could to confirm it was really their handler back from the dead. But none of them threatened to invade Natasha and Clint's personal space. At least not for the first twelve hours of waiting.

Clint never stopped firing arrows, and Natasha's fingers were itching to a release, too, but she had a back to watch. She refused to believe it was actually Coulson until she could lay eyes on him herself. And she wasn't about to get Clint's hopes higher than they already were in case they were mistaken on their intel.

Natasha had spent the last five months piecing together what she could of Clint's brokenness; she wasn't about to let the whole process have to start again because of some hoax.

Her attention was pulled back into the present when she reserved two texts simultaneously. One was Cap checking in on them. Natasha overlooked the mother hen-ness that was creeping into the tone of his messages. The second made her grip her phone so hard she was surprised she didn't break the screen. It was from Sitwell and it read all of two words: _It's him_.

Natasha felt her breath catch in her chest. She abandoned her post of pacing in front of the shooting range's door to stalk inside where Clint was alone and taking out target after target. "Sitwell is reporting a positive identification." There was the slightest of hiccups in the smooth movement of Clint's repeated firing, but no other sign that he'd even heard what she said.

Time stretched on into the afternoon. The only interruptions were texts from the team, mostly Rogers, trying to use "Have you heard anything new?" as a cover for the thinly veiled "If you guys don't eat or sleep soon, I will come down and get you myself." She ignored the texts until she started receiving alerts that Coulson was in the building.

Natasha felt her heart race at the news. Her breathing accelerated slightly as she tried to quiet the nervous thoughts floating around in her mind. She read through the heads up notifications the others were sending her and used them to track her former handler's path through Stark Tower. She knew he would come to them, so she readied herself.

When she heard the elevator at the end of the hall ping and doors slide open, she removed a knife from under her jacket and let it sail through the air to embed itself in the elevator wall, just shy of Coulson's right ear.

"I actually don't have any ear hair to trim, but thank you for the offer." As soon as the sentence was spoken, Natasha sent a matching knife to land next to his left ear. She wasn't in the mood for jokes, not after all they'd been through. "Natasha—"

"Don't. Just don't," she spat as she resumed her pacing at the end of the hallway, words that had been pent up inside her for months spewing forth without thought. "You weren't the one who had to tell him that you were dead. You haven't been the one trying to keep him together while he fights off the guilt of helping Loki kill you."

Coulson shook his head and raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. "That's not what happened."

She rolled her eyes at that. "You know that, and I know that, but do you think his screwed up, guilt-ridden brain can comprehend it?"

Her comment had the desired effect as Coulson seemed to deflate in front of her and focus his attention on shoes. "How bad is he?" he asked softly.

"We caught wind that Fury was flying to Paris for a meeting. We found out it was with you an hour after Fury left the café to make his proposal. He's been down here ever since."

"Natasha, that was nineteen hours ago." She shrugged in response. "Who else knows he's done this?"

Her fingers instinctively itched to reach for her phone to see what new texts would certainly be there to see if she and Clint wanted emotional backup. "I've scared the others away as much as I could. If you hadn't shown up when you did, I don't know how much more deflection I could've managed."

"If I hadn't shown up when I did, he would run himself into the ground from exhaustion. He has to be pushing the limits as it is," Coulson replied, concern plainly written on his face.

"Since when has that ever stopped him from being an idiot?"

"Fair point." He handed her back her knives. "Anything important I should know before going in there?"

"Stark built him an automated arrow retrieval system, so he basically has unlimited ammunition. He hasn't slept in over day, eaten in twenty hours, and if I didn't keep him contained in there, he'd probably be hunting down Fury. Oh, and this." With her enhanced reaction speed, she was able to smack him hard in the left ear before he saw her move. Just as quickly, she then placed a kiss on each of his cheeks. "Don't do that to us again," she warned with lethal intent in her voice. She held his eyes for a moment, taking him in, reacquainting herself with the lines of his face. It was him, truly him, standing before her. He let her study him for a second more before nodding and walking through the door into the range to face Clint.

She noted the time and decided on giving the two men no more than five minutes before she busted in. Coulson was right, Clint had to be on the brink of exhaustion by now and she didn't want him to actually break, not after all the work she'd put into keeping him together these last five months.

The two men emerged from the range with a minute left on Natasha's personal countdown. Coulson had Clint's arm draped over his shoulders and the archer was leaning heavily on the older man. Natasha silently rushed to Clint's other side and looped her arm around his waist in an effort to take on some of his weight because even though Phil tried to wave her off, the strain was evident on his face and any anger Natasha felt at Coulson was momentarily abated and replaced with concern for her handler's health.

The two of them maneuvered Clint up to his personal floor of Stark Tower where they managed to shove an emergency ration bar down his throat and both were grateful he was too tired to complain. Natasha was ready to toss him onto the nearest flat surface so he could sleep for a good twelve hours when Coulson shook his head. "Shower," he ordered.

Natasha sighed and kept an arm around Clint's waist as the pair moved towards the bathroom. "Can you do this?" Natasha asked. Clint barely nodded causing Natasha to roll her eyes. "Sure you can," she muttered as she turned on the shower and efficiently removed clothing from both of their bodies.

This was a courtesy both of them had afforded the other on various occasions when one of them was too exhausted or injured or both to move and get themselves clean. She pulled Clint under the hot spray of the set of showerheads and began to wash his hair.

"'S really him?" Clint slurred.

She nodded. "Five different people ran DNA tests. All of them came back positive." She watched Clint's jaw clinch. "What?"

"Why didn't he tell us?" he asked, pain ringing in his voice.

She shook her head. "He had to have had his reasons. And they better be good ones." He didn't respond to her threat, and she didn't speak any more either. She quickly helped him finish getting clean and just as she was about to shut off the water he leaned his head forward so his forehead rested on hers. His left hand came up to stroke her cheek.

"I haven't said thank you."

She leaned into his touch. "You don't have to."

"Don't know what I'd do without you, Tasha."

She couldn't answer that. She felt a cold hand squeeze her chest and had difficulty swallowing. The bathroom that was spacious a moment ago now felt claustrophobic. Natasha quickly shut off the water and helped Clint stumble out of the shower. They toweled themselves dry and made their way out to a set of drawers. He took a pair of boxer briefs and she swiped an old shirt and a pair of boxer shorts. By the time she turned around, he was already flopped spread eagle and face down on the bed and snoring. She haphazardly threw a blanket over him and padded her way out of his room.

When she returned to the common area of Clint's floor, Coulson was standing in the kitchenette. His tie and jacket were neatly laid over a bar stool and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. "He asleep?" She nodded her answer. "I ordered us some food from Dhaba; it should be here in about fifteen. Hope you still like chicken tikka masala."

"Last time you bought me dinner it was to chew me out over the op in Miami."

"I'm not mad at you," he responded quietly. "I'm sure you don't feel the same way about me."

She felt the muscles in her back tense. "You could say that," she said. Natasha had yet to take more than three steps into the room, and the distance between them, at least twenty feet, seemed miniscule to the chasm she felt inside.

"It had to be done," he said. "You needed the push. You all needed something to rally around, and if I could serve as that function so the mission could be accomplished, then so be it."

"You could've come back after." She hated herself for how small and broken she sounded when she said that but felt satisfaction when a smidge of pity eeked its way into his face when he looked at her. "He needed you. You two idiots finally get something started with each other and then you disappear."

"He had you."

"I may not always be around."

It was that statement that caused him to move towards her. He slowly walked up to her, his hands loose and visible at his side in a blatant effort to seem as non-threatening as possible. Once he was within a foot of her, he looked her up and down and studied her face. "Don't run."

She felt herself bristle at the words. How could he know? How could he know what her mind wanted to do before she did? Because running was exactly what she wanted to do. She was too vulnerable, too weak. Coulson was back now, and he and Clint could take care of each other. It might take some more stumbling for them to get back on the relationship path they'd just started back in New Mexico before Loki arrived, but they'd get there. And they'd have each other. The two of them, and certainly the rest of the team, would be able to survive without her. As soon as those two words were spoken, the need she felt building inside crystalized, and it was all she could do not to split and run for the hills then and there. Because this was too much. She didn't want to endure this ever again. She didn't want to feel like a part of her existence was completely tied up in the wellbeing of someone else and if that person ceased to be then she would no longer be whole.

"Please, Natasha. Trust me. Don't run."

She closed her eyes. It would be so easy to give in to his words, to acquiesce to the voice that had filled her ears and handed her orders for half of a decade. "I can't go through this again."

Coulson was smart enough not to make her any promises. They both were amply familiar with the occupational hazards and shortened life expectancy that accompanied a position at SHIELD. He just nodded and took a step back. "I understand. If that's what you want to do, I won't stand in your way."

She nodded and began to move towards the door, but paused when his voice called out again after her.

"But you're going to have to be the one who tells Clint you're leaving."

She felt her temper flare. "I forgot how dirty you play."

"You shouldn't since you taught me a thing or two."

Natasha remained stuck not ten feet from the entrance to Clint's quarters debating on what to do, whether or not to cut and run. "I'll decide in the morning." With that, she left for her own quarters. It felt unnatural to be walking away from Clint, to not fall asleep next to him like they had for most of the last five months. And in the same instance, leaving him behind for Coulson to watch over him and care for him, it felt like the last five months never happened at all.

* * *

The following morning she walked into the common kitchen and felt her chest tighten all over again. Clint was manning the stove, aromas of bacon and pancakes filling the air. Coulson sat on a stool at the counter reading through reports. Bruce and Thor sat at a nearby table where the scientist was trying to explain one of Doctor Foster's research papers to the Asgardian, and Steve was rummaging in the refrigerator for some juice. But it wasn't the sights or smells that made her breath stick, it was the sound.

Clint was singing.

She froze at the sound of the eighties power ballad being sung from the man cooking breakfast. Natasha heard someone walk up behind her and saw Tony push up welding goggles onto his forehead.

"He can sing?" Stark asked. "Since when? And we're totally going out for karaoke."

Natasha ignored him and settled onto the bar stool next to Coulson. She felt his eyes turn on her but she stayed quiet, choosing instead to focus on Clint instead.

"Well?" her handler quietly asked a moment later.

She paused to consider her answer. She could run. She could leave all of this behind and return to the shell of a person she was before SHIELD: the cold, ruthless, efficient killer who didn't and couldn't care for those around her. Or she could stay and run the risk of losing Coulson again. Or Clint. Or Stark or any other member of the team who had weaseled their way into her life over the last five months. She could stay and have there be a strong possibility that one of them, or several of them, could be lost and she would be left feeling once more incomplete.

To live as an empty shell or live as a whole being constantly at risk of amputation?

"I supposed I could stick around for another week," she answered.

Despite the lack of expression on his face, she saw a happy twinkle in his eye. "Thank you, Agent Romanoff." Clint, not pausing in singing one song straight into another, chose that moment to slide a plate of pancakes in front of her, complete with a smiley face drawn with syrup.

It could all go to hell hours from now. But for now, for this instance, Natasha's life was full once more.


End file.
